While we wait for another article to be published by Nora, I thought I would share something I wrote for myself. Too long for the newspaper but I hope it conjures up some great memories of your own childhood on this chilly April morning.

If you are like me, you probably waste a considerable amount of time wishing things were different.  Or why something happened to you.  I don’t know why, but until I got to this ripe age of maturity, I thought that “old people” were exempt from these problems. I mean, don’t you think that by retirement, you should finally be where you want doing the things you want?  Problems solved? I wish that were true but now that I’m here, I realize that it’s all a myth.  That also raises the question, what does old look like?

Isn’t it funny that even names mean old to us? Evelyn and Otto were my maternal grandparents. (Grama and Grampa “Shee-shee”) Living in North Dakota, memories of them are limited as we went there for two weeks every summer. My cousins and I were always a little scared of Grama. A former teacher, she made us toe the line. One particular summer stands out. After they sold the farm, they moved to town and we got to play with their neighbor kids. I have no idea what we were doing wrong; but I remember Grama storming out onto the porch wielding a paring knife and giving us the dickens. I was so embarrassed! I don’t think Grama realized she was waving the knife until the episode was all over and the neighbors had run for home, scared for their lives. When she wasn’t terrorizing the neighbor kids, she was busy playing piano or playing the organ in church. I also give her credit for letting us stay up late to watch Johnny Carson. Back when late night television was entertaining.

They also visited us each fall, just in time for the World Series.  I never developed a love of watching sports but we never missed a baseball game when Grandpa came to visit.   I can still hear him talk about the “Dod’gers” in what I believe to be a Norwegian accent. Heavy on the “Dod”; guess you probably had to be there. Living into their 90’s, they both spent their final years in nursing homes. Years that were tough for family to watch; years we hope they don’t recall. Well cared-for but not a way I hope to go.

My fraternal grandparents were very present in my life; they lived across the driveway for a better part of my growing years.  This was awesome.  I hung out with my father and grandfather and loved every minute of it.  Out in the barn or in the shop. Working with the animals or with hand tools. Then and even now at the age of 88, there’s nothing that my dad can’t build himself.  As we speak, he is probably out in his garage working on rebuilding his Model T.  If parts aren’t available, he’s making them.  It’s crazy to imagine being that mechanically minded. 

I would tell you that it was during this time that I learned so many useful skills that are typically reserved for boys.  It’s probably also why I found myself excelling as a woman in a man’s field of work; gravitating to jobs that required me to work with men. It was and continues to be my comfort zone. Conversely, I’m afraid my mother would tell you that it was there that I picked up the annoying habit of swearing like a sailor.  Yet oddly enough, I’m finding myself appalled lately with the use of the “F” word on social media and even on television recently. What’s up with that?  

I remember digging worms around the corncrib on the weekends for my Grandparents to take with them to their lake cabin for fishing.  Feeding the chickens and gathering eggs.  While I have grandiose memories of these menial tasks; my memories of what I did yesterday are often lost.   Honestly, who knows how accurate my memories are but if they are pleasant, I’m going to run with them.   

I feel like my grandparents were very active people; yet they were still old in my mind.  I thought it was cool that my grandfather, a retired dairy farmer, would spend his winters working at the roller-skating rink in Florida.  Back in the day, when church youth groups hosted parties at the local roller-skating rink, my grandfather would not only drive us there, but he would spend the entire time skating.  That led to the never-ending question, “Who’s the old man out there?  He’s a surprisingly good skater.” To which I would reply with pride, “That’s my grandpa!”

I also enjoyed time with my grandmother. Bertha, who Grandpa Clyde called “Billy” was a retired nurse and a great cook.  I picked up my interest in cooking and baking from her.  I feel like all these experiences led me to be a well-rounded person.  As an adult, my love of cooking led my family to be rounder than they cared to be.  Fortunately, they have taken the time to learn about healthy cooking and portion control so now they can share their love of cooking with their families with less of the unhealthy side-effects.

Skating Grandpa was the first to go; active right up to the night he passed. His funeral the same day as my first prom, my sophomore year of high school.  It was difficult but at the time I felt that I had spent as much time with him as I possibly could have and he died of a heart attack during the night.  What a wonderful way to go.  I was at peace with it, after all, he was old.  Looking back today, he was only 70 years old.  Now at the ripe age of 62, I realize that 70 is no longer old.  So, I ask myself, was it old then; or is old age a sliding scale, a moving target?  Are you only as old as you feel? As much as we don’t want to think about it, we need to care for our bodies. We only get one, and replacement parts are expensive!